The Resurrection

So, when we last left our hero, he was discussing his curious sadness over his local homeless woman's passing on into the next chapter. Odd place to leave off, but, there it was. Obama was just beginning to work out the ass groove left in the Oval Office leather by his predecessor. The King of Pop was still with us, residing in the "Where is he now?" file. And my hair was only 3% gray as opposed to the current 5%. Now, 6 months later, batteries recharged, I feel ready again to dispense with the yuk-yuk, insight, and overall slightly off-center viewpoints on this thing we call life, and life here in sunny Californ-I-A.

I reckon the coolest development of late, aside from transformation from Pillsbury Doughboy into a lean, mean, fighting machine, has been my reemergence on the public front avec mon guitar. Not that my music ever ceased per se, I just was keeping it on the low for a while. Working on mine owns ill ish. I've hooked some of y'all up with some of my new joints, with favorable reviews so far, 'lessen folks is just being polite.

Nonetheless, I met some cool cats not long ago, and have poking my head out like a musical turtle. So what have I learned? Either California was blown out of proportion in my mind as far as musicality, I'm more badass than I thought, or both. Not to toot my own horn, or pluck my own strings as it were, but the locals seem more than enthused and impressed by my east coast stylings. This, of course, is a cool thing if you're standing in my shoes. It's just curious to me, is all. I don't feel I've properly "brought the ruckus" just yet, but I'll take the kudos.

Likewise, I don't feel like L.A. cats have brought the ruckus to me either. I've heard all of one man play something that sounded new and different to me so far. And even he, like so many in life, took a kernel of a good thing and stamped it into the ground with a steel-tipped boot until it was rendered useless.

I guess my point here is that like a lot of things, both in life and in Cali, get built up in my/our heads, and so rarely do they live up to our full mental hype. This is not a new or profound sentiment. Doesn't make it any less true though.

My next attempt at ruckus-bringing/ruckus-hearing will be this Sunday out in good ol' Glendale, at the Big Fish. Let the ruckas be brought.

Circle of Life

So, I can't believe this, but today's offering will be the SECOND hommage of sorts to an elderly stranger that died anonymously. Ever since we've been here, (two friggin' years plus already), in addition to all the crazy Russians and aspiring actors in our neighborhood, there was also this elderly homeless woman. I'd say she clocked in at around 80 or so. 80-ish, Spanish speaking, largely toothless, moving at a snail's pace, she and her lil' dog sidekick had established some type of niche here on ol' Sierra Bonita Ave.
I'd kind of figured out her routine by now. She'd set up some type of shop across the street, between buildings, back by our laundry room. During the days, she'd casually make the rounds to all of the garbage cans around the neighborhood, looking for food remnants, and perhaps the bottles and cans to recycle. My wife is into all things olfactory, and on more than one occasion, I'd seen this woman in our garbage, trying to salvage the last scraps of a candle, bottle of perfume, or something else Bubba may have been done with. Similarly, our building gets the occasional single rose blooming outside our window, and much to our chagrine, she'd often come by and help herself to it. But she was remarkably happy. Always smiling. I'd try and say hello in broken Spanish, and she was always receptive.
Make no mistake, she could be annoying. Sometimes, the garbage cans would be right outside our bedroom window, and she'd be rattling bottles, muttering incoherently and moaning at the crack of dawn. But I always respected that on Friday's, after the garbage had been picked up, she'd drag the cans back to behind the building, one at a time, inch by inch. It was like it was her way of "earning her keep" for what she'd been able to salvage.
Why am I bringing her up? Because it occurred to me last week that I hadn't seen her for maybe a month. And I still haven't. As such, I can't help but think that she finally passed on, anonymously in the street, behind an apartment building, somewhere. I find it interesting, the degree to which I'm saddened by this likely fact. I don't know her backstory whatsoever. In her prime, she may have been someone's wife, a factory worker, a professional, you name it. Anything's possible. Regardless, it just struck me as sad, albeit realistically inevitable, that this would be her ultimate fate. For what it's worth, senorita, someone DID notice.

Sick-O

So Bubba and I had a really bad scare last week with our boy Orville. All was right with the world, and we set out for a few hours to get a little shopping done. We come home and as per his strict schedule, it's time for the big O's afternoon carrots. The carrot feeding tends to be a bigger production than some of his other feedings, as they are the perfect size for Bubba to feed him by hand, one at a time. As such, she can have him do all kinds of tricks to earn his "bacon" as it were. Shaking of the hands (hooves), the 360 turnaround, and Bubba's favorite, the Carrots for Kisses exchange.

So Bubba gears up for a round of pig action, when much to our surprise, Orville won't eat. He just beaches himself on the couch like Homer Simpson. Well, it didn't take much for us to realize, "Sumpin' ain't right." Orville has NEVER been gastronomically sated in the two years we've had him. Never. Now, nothing. Clearly he's ill. Now it becomes a mad scramble to see who will see our boy on short notice. Can't just call any old vet, since he's a pig and all. Plus, we were after hours by then, so we were really screwed. Finally, we find a travelling vet, but he can't make it until the morning.

Orville is an eating ma-CHINE. "Hoover" we call him, given his penchant for snorting up anything and everything off of the floor. So, while we don't know what specifically, clearly he ate something he shouldn't have. And so the waiting started. Alls we could do was wait it out with him until the morning when the vet would get there.

The Animal Poison Control (Yes, there's one just for animals) said we should try to give him some Gatorade. Poor little man, it was all he could do just snout over the bowl and lap it up off the floor, he was so ill. We tried to give him some peanuts, but he couldn't eat more than like 3. I took a picture because much like Halley's comet, we're not gonna see THAT again the rest of his life: a pig refusing food.

We decided to sleep with him in the living room, keeping him warm, and making sure his vitals didn't drop or anything. Around 4 in the morning or so, I hear Orville start smacking his lips, even more than usual. Next thing I know, he's puking his lil' pig guts out. Not pleasant for sure, but I was happy to see it, as his body was getting rid of whatever he ate that old "Iron Belly" couldn't process.

A few more unpleasant episodes later, it was now morning, and he was starting to come around when the vet came. (They literally squeezed us in before going off to the Cyrus household, as in, Miley and Billy Ray). Folks I have to tell you, this guy was AWESOME. He and his partner came in, and weren't inside more than 2 minutes before they had him on his back, essentially hog-tied, to check him out. As pigs do, Orville screamed his ear-curdling scream like a baby the entire 30-minutes they were there, and the guys didn't even flinch. They checked him out, gave him his shots, trimmed his hooves, AND cut his tusks. (Quick aside: We now know that pig tusks grow in the mouth, not outside like we had wrongly assumed. We thought his tusks were just these two bad-ass snaggle-teeth that he had, that were sticking out the sides of his mouth like daggers).

So at the end of the day, Orville got a clean bill of health, and he's back to his gluttonous ways. He clocked in at a very respectable 50 lbs., not too heavy, but not so skinny that he's being denied his rights as a pig. The only casualty of the affair was that we had to postone this years birthday "feast," as we want to let his belly settle down a bit.

The Path To Comedic Enlightenment

So, I'm not a comedian by any stretch of the imagination, though I DO crack myself up pretty contstantly. That aside, having taken a few laps around the block known as life by now, I've learned that if I WERE a comedian, there are certain places I'd go in life for all of my source material. I'm talking about places that are inherently hilarious before anyone has even said a word. If I were a stand-up, I'd just go to these places with a notepad, and park myself for hours. What are such places? The track. Guitar shops. Comic book stores. Casinos. There's pletnty of others, but that gives you an idea. Just comedy gold.
Why do I bring this up? Because there's another here in Hollywood that totally fits the bill. Namely, the Bodhi Tree. Now, before I procede, let me preface this by saying that just because I'm going to lampoon it, does not mean it's without its merits, as I'd say about all of the others as well (except for maybe the track). My better half, Bubba, is a very spiritual person. She's big on energy, dimensions, and other things that she has opened my eyes to over the years. (For example, the first time we met, she read my energy, and told me my life story 5 minutes later, better than I knew it myself). As such, she hit upon the Bodhi Tree as a sort of one stop shopping for all of her spiritual needs. Crystals, books, incense, lotions, potions and the like. Being the good hubby I aspire to be, I've often gone along with her as the Robin to her celestial Batman.
We hadn't gone for a while, and recently returned. Having learned it's better for me to stay out of the way (much as she would return the favor at a guitar store), I took the opportunity to peruse the offerings and catch up on what's going on spiritually in the world. Again, I know enough to know I don't know too much, and that who am I to say what's legit or not in this world. Simulataneously, one also has to keep perspective in life, and appreciate the comedy in things as well. A few things I noticed: Apparently based on the autographed pictures on the wall (much like how you'd see autographed head shots at your favorite diner), to be a spiritually enlightened man, a prerequisite is a ZZ Top-esque beard. I can't even grow a full mustache, let alone a beard, so I feel like from jump street, the best I can aspire towards is, I don't know, purgatory? Limbo?
I made my way to the magazine rack, where I could've gotten lost for days. You wouldn't believe the array of topics for which folks have taken the time to properly chronicle the cutting edge information. I'm paraphrasing the exact titles, but the topics were all legitimately there. You had Bellydancing Monthly; The Real Encounters With UFO's Times; How to Turn Your Household Waste Into Organic Foodstuffs; and my personal favorite, something like Wiccan Life. The genius of that one was that it was all these witch related topics, but presented with a light airyness you'd find in like, Good Housekeeping. "Read about this summer's freshest new spells!" "How to make your coven stand out!" "10 Surefire tips to keep your warlock under your spell!" Just when I thought my head was about to explode, I noticed that somehow, immersed like 2 magazines down, was Highlights magazine. Highlights magazine?!? I used to read that saccarin magazine when I was like 6, in my Dentist's waiting room. How did that magazine possibly end up in this mix?
I headed towards the actual books for sale, and was completely overwhelmed. How can there be so many different paths to enlightenment? Which of the 25 diet books truly knows correctly which bland food will cure my achy joints? I'm serious. Coming in as a relative spiritual novice, how could I possibly be expected to navigate this terrain, were I looking for outside guidance on taking my soul to a higher level? Fortunately for me, my Bubba's done much of the leg work, so I'm covered.

On WIth the Show, This is it

So, Monday night, I went to my first sort of, movie premiere, in the form of my boy Z, AKA, Issac Bright, AKA, The Verbal Warrior, unveiling, or should I say, unLEASHING his new one man show on the unsuspecting masses. While there weren't flood lights bounding through the skies of Hollywood, or papparazzi, or a red carpet, it was nonetheless, kind of neat, seeing my boys' name up on the marquee. Z was shrewd enough to rent out this really cool theater around the corner from me on Fairfax. I'd driven by it countless times. It regularly shows old silent movies, and seems to have a decent sized regualr clientele for their Charlie Chaplin and Lilian Gish flicks.

Anyway, so Bubba and I get there right on time, and make our way inside. The theater looked like it held maybe 100-120 people, and included plush chairs, complete with small throw pillows on each one, as well as two rows up front of leather couches for proper, living room style lounging. So much so that this one jackass apparently really did think he was at home, as he fired up cigarette after cigarette. Maybe it was a less than subtle homage to Max Cady in "Cape Fear," minus the raucous, obnoxious laughter?

Before the show started, I mingled with some good folks I knew, ALL of whom were East Coast transplants. It seems true what they say, that no one in L.A. is actually FROM L.A. I got to see three different people, none of whom I'd seen in probably 10 years. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

I'll refrain from an actual movie review, leaving that to the good folks at Variety and such. Suffice to say, the performance was "different" and "unusual." Put that on the poster.

Focal Point of Blah

So, I haven't been particularly in the frame of mind to blog much of late, as I've been a tad funky for a little while. Maybe if I grease the wheels of creativity a bit, the flow will increase and I'll be able to up the productivity a little.
Recently, I had a unique experience. Well, not so much that what happened was so extraordinary, but it was new for me. See, a friend of mine from back east was in town, and really for the first time, I was in the position of being an L.A. "host," in the sense of, "I'm the guy who now lives in L.A. so I'll be able to show a newbie the ropes. I've had visitors since I've been here, (my sister Bef, my sister in law Jenny, and the Felz), but none in a while, and I would say that I was more the defacto host then, as opposed to now, when I'm more of a veteran of the L.A. process. And that feels wierd to me, the fact that I've been here long enough to be a "veteran."
Anyway, I've learned since I've been here that location wise, it was a remarkable throw of the darts at the board as to exactly where we ended up. We really are smack dab in the middle of it all, though I didn't know it when we flew out here on a whirlwind tour to find an apartment in 4 days in October '06. We knew we wanted to be in Hollywood, but didn't know just how centralized it actually is. So when my man came out I was like, "where are you staying?" "Over near Griffith Park." "Cool. That's a stone's throw from me. What would you like to do?" "I want to check out the shopping on Melrose." "Cool. That's walking distance from me." The Sunset Strip? Walking distance. The beach? 30 minutes by car. Etc.
We ended up taking a little tour of the Sunset Strip (which he was largely unimpressed by), before doing a little window shopping on Melrose. Once on Melrose, Oren reiterated what I'd already suspected. Namely, that for all the hipness and trendiness aspired to in the shops, it's remarakably homogenized. Like, all of the designers are trying to be so unique and different, yet they all look the same (think Ed Hardy). I've yet to properly verbally quantify the style, but there is this one underlying line of thought, shared by all of the "radical" designers. And all the hep cats sport the same accessories in the form of the haircuts, rings, jewelry, and tats. So much so that I feel like I'M the radical because I'm tattoo-less, sport no products in my hair, and really no accessories at all.

LAPD Blue

So, last Friday, I'm on my 5-mile walk route, same as any other every other day. These days, although we've had a mild summer, I still prefer to do my walking at dusk, so it's not too hot, not too cold. Anyway, last Friday's walk was completely uneventful and non-descript at first. However, about 10 minutes after reaching the halfway point and turning around, although ears deep in Public Enemy, I nonetheless spotted some type of goings on up ahead. Namely, the westbound side of Santa Monica was all of a sudden shut down, but more curiously, I see several blocks worth of pedestrians all standing still, facing forward in the same direction, like it was a crowd scene for a Jerry Bruckheimer film, or one of those Verizon, "Can you hear me now?" spots. Begrudingly, I temporarily interrupt, "She Watch Channel Zero," so as to see what was up.
Much to my surprise, I see some sort of police stand-off outside of the Starbucks. As I got within a block or two, I hear the female police officer over the loudspeaker saying, "Come out of the Starbucks single file, with your hands on your head, and turn left." My first instinct was, "Huzzah! The Starbucks set is finally getting their comeuppance for years of spending $5.00 on a friggin' cup of coffee." (give me the 75-cent, street vendor variety any day of the week. black.) Then I realized there was an actual situation afoot. As I got closer, (gotta keep the heart rate up, standoff or no standoff), I actually saw several officers outside the store in like, SWAT team postition, guns pointed directly at the store.
By now it sort of dawned on me that, hmm, maybe I should probably skeddadle, in case things go awry. A strong police presence is one thing, but kill weapons out of their holsters is another. Plus, I think that the local constible's were a little extra gung-ho, since they don't get too much heavy action in WeHo, lessen' you count public drunkenness, solicitiation, or subduing Andy Dick as heavy action. Last thing I saw, some tall stringbean was getting cuffed and stuffed, and all of a sudden, I felt safer, knowing this double-latte fiend was now off the streets.